


P.S. I Love You

by CaspianTheGeek (DemonicGeek)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Artist Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ficlet, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:34:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29178048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicGeek/pseuds/CaspianTheGeek
Summary: Crowley has been sending Aziraphale cards for years. This is a small ficlet about them, and about the last one he sent.This fic will end open-ended with my full permission for you to take it and use it as a prompt or just imagine it ending how you'd like.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53





	P.S. I Love You

**Author's Note:**

> I was asking for inspiration and @Mr_AZ_Fell on Twitter provided this bit of encouragement: https://twitter.com/Mr_AZ_Fell/status/1355656693317840896?s=20
> 
> Here's the start of that story of the postcard. It's left open-ended, so you can imagine it going however you'd like. Or if you'd like, you can finish it however you deem fit, just please tag me if you do <3

It is said that the first postcard was sent in 1840. While this is correct for humans, many years ago Crowley had begun to send cards in an envelope to Aziraphale. He didn’t want to write much in case it was intercepted. Yet he knew the angel would understand what he was sharing simply from the drawings.

Aziraphale amassed a small collection of sketches on cards delivered by various couriers long before the first human thought to send a postcard. The topics had no set theme; they depicted food, coastlines, quaint buildings, and at least one was just a drawing of an alpaca. On the back of each was a small drawing of a single black feather, almost like a signature.

In the year 1862 as humans were truly discovering the concept of the postcard, Aziraphale’s stopped receiving cards.

Over the next few decades, he would at times pull out the box of cards. He considered these his weak moments. The times when he dared to hope that the friendship that had carried his heart through so much would come back to him. That his demon would come back to him.

It was decades later, but one day a card arrived in his mail slot. This one wasn’t a drawing, but a commercial card from New York City. There was a small black feather on the back, and nothing else.

Aziraphale’s heart jumped. It took all his resolve to not immediately book passage on the next ship for New York. The year was 1912 and he tried very hard not to hope.

It was years before another postcard found its way to his door, but as 1918 ended one arrived. This one was sent from right in London, but he understood what it meant. Crowley was letting him know is the only way he could that the demon was safe. They weren’t celebrating that this war was over like they had so many others, but Aziraphale’s heart relaxed knowing that the one he treasured was in the city and unharmed.

More cards came throughout the years. Some years he’d get near twenty whereas other years it was just one or two. There was a series of them sent from London that was just pictures of an automobile. Aziraphale clung to the thin hope they offered even as he wondered how to repair what had been broken between them.

After that fateful night in 1941, the postcards tapered off for a bit. Of course, during the war neither strayed too far from the bookshop or London. And Crowley seemed delighted to keep Aziraphale up to date in person if for no other reason than to “keep him out of trouble.”

As time went on, both had needed to travel again. Here too, things changed. For one, Aziraphale began sending his own cards when he found something he thought would be to Crowley’s liking. But Aziraphale wasn’t one for drawing, so he wrote short messages on each.

They were always innocuous enough, not detailed enough to tell who was sending them. Aziraphale signed each with a simply flourished A.

After the Not-pocalypse, the postcards stopped again. Of course, this was for a very different reason than before. There wasn’t much need to send a card when you could simply whisper about the beautiful sunset, arms wrapped around each other.

Time passed and two boxes of postcards sat next to each other in the bookshop.

One day Aziraphale was sitting on the sofa reading. Crowley had left earlier to go do who knew what, and the angel felt he was far overdue for some time spent with one of his favorite books.

The small mail slot on the door rustled and Aziraphale looked up to see a singular postcard slide in. He set the book down next to him, still open, and stood to look curiously at the small piece of paper.

It had a small house on the front, but nothing about it stood out. He turned it over and on the back was written a single address. It was signed with a black feather. Aziraphale pulled his coat on, carefully tucking the precious card in the inside chest pocket before he hailed a cab.

The drive was ridiculously long for a city cab, but Aziraphale convinced him it was a good idea and tipped him exceptionally well as he stepped out to the pavement. In front of him was the cottage pictured on the card, looking as if the photo had been taken that very day.

The door of the cottage opened and Crowley stepped out, a smile on his face.


End file.
